David A. Schwinghammer
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Father Dewey is tracking his best friend, Gordy, as a suspect in Andy's murder.
Chapter 10
La Belle Dame sans Merci
“Could ye not watch with me one hour?
Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation:
the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
Matthew 26:40-41
Father Mike noticed a gate in the fence behind the rectory that seemed to lead into the woods. On his way out, he wrapped Mutt’s leash around his arthritic right hand so as not to lose him; he’d been warned that the dog was quite wily and would pull any sort of vile trick to escape; apparently Father Czech had never had him neutered.
Pete Wielinski had just struck a match to the largest of the yellowish-orange leaf piles, and as the wind was from the west, the smoke began to drift towards the rectory. Father Mike breathed in the smell, an odor that brought back his childhood on a hundred and sixty acre dairy farm in northern Minnesota.
Father Mike looped the leash over the fence. “Peter, I wonder if you have a moment.”
The groundskeeper tossed his cigarette in the fire. “Yes, Father. What can I do for you?”
“How’s the family, Peter?”
Peter thou art a rock and upon this rock I shall build my church. Seemed shameful that this man should be christened with such a name. But then Peter had denied Christ when the cock crowed thrice. Liked the man’s humility, though. St. Peter had himself crucified upside down--felt he wasn’t worthy of Christ’s example.
“So-so. Been having money problems. You’re not out here to give me a raise, are you?”
“I’m afraid not. Why don’t you tell me about it, though, and I’ll see what I can do. I’m Father Hogan, Father Fischer’s uncle.” They shook hands. Peter Wielinski had rough, woodchopper’s hands, and he squeezed a little too hand, hurting Father Mike’s fingers.
“If it’s not one thing it’s another. The old car broke down, and then we got that assessment for the new water treatment plant.”
“Hmmph. Can’t you make some kind of arrangment to pay that off in installments?”
“Hadn’t heard that I could.”
“I’ll see what I can do about your car, Peter. I’ve just been on the phone with Fredrich’s Motors, regarding the church roof. Maybe I can arrange some sort of discount--”
“We don’t take no charity, Father.”
The golden retriever whoofed at Father Mike as if to say, “Come on, I ain’t got all day.”
“Now you just be patient there, doggie,” Father Mike said. “Peter, Peter, if there’s one thing I’ve learned it is not to refuse charity. Faith, Hope, and Charity are the three divine virtues, after all. Won’t you let me do this for you? If not for you, for your wife.”
The man bowed his head, jammed both rough hands in his overall pockets. “Her and me we ain’t been getting along too well lately. Ever since she moved into Joanie’s room.”
“Joanie?”
“That’s my married daughter. We only had the one child.”
“That would be a hard trial for a man to deal with. Would you like a suggestion, Peter?”
Father Mike knew this had to be the most embarrassing conversation Peter Wielinski had ever had in his entire sixty-some-odd years, but he nodded.
“When’s the last time you brought her flowers?”
Peter looked up at the threatening, liver-colored sky. “Ah, never. We was neighbors on the farm. Six girls on one side of the river and six boys on the other side. We was like the same age and everything, and we helped out with the threshing and that and it was just kind of the normal type thing for us to get married.”
Father Mike retrieved the leash from the fence, and the dog proferred one of his paws for a shake. He took it and said: “You bring her flowers or some candy, and you find a nice card to go with it, and I can practically guarantee she’ll be back in the marital bed in no time.”
Peter opened his mouth, and Father Mike was sure he was about to tell him about how he’d hit her and that no amount of flowers or candy or Hallmark cards was going to do any good, but he just couldn’t get it out. Instead he recommenced stoking the orange flames licking at the pile of crackling maple and oak leaves. “Thank you, Father,” he said.
Forgetting about the possibility of pain, Father Mike clapped the man on the back. His hand felt as though he’d just caught a foul off the bat of Kirby Puckett.
The impatient Mutt led Father Mike through the open gate, the dog did his business next to a lilac bush and they followed the path bordering the grassy verge of the woods, and before Father Mike knew it, he found himself on the street that led to the river. The dog seemed to sense the old man’s frailty and Father Mike was able to hold Mutt as easily as a blind man might govern a guide dog. Father Mike breathed in the brisk fall air and thought about the retired priests at Shady Rest in Tucson where he’d been so miserable. Some of those old coots were just biding their time, content in the assurance that they’d be raised to heaven in a fiery chariot when their earthly trial was done; others were obsessed with golf, or worse yet, pinochle or bridge. If that infernal Bickerstaff told him once more that the odds against drawing a perfect bridge hand were 158,753,389,899 to 1, he’d throw up on him.
Father Mike and the dog stayed on the same street until they got to the Mississippi River dam, and the dog tugged left as if he knew where they were going. A red and black high-voltage sign warned about getting too close to the fence. As they moved through the park, Father Mike spotted the huge Victorian in the distance. The golden retriever nipped at a beagle who, along with its owner, a heavy woman in a powder blue jogging outfit, had the misforturne of crossing their path.
“Bad dog,” Father Mike said, and the retriever shrank as if he expected to be hit.
The priest felt humbled by the dog’s reaction. “Oh, you’re just feeling your oats, boy,” he said. “We’ll have to talk to Dewey about a visit to the vet.”
#
Father Mike was dumbstruck when Mrs. Culp answered her door. He’d been told the woman was at least eighty; yet she had the poise, flair, and thrust chin of a runway model.
“Ah, are you Mrs. Culp?” he said.
“I don’t know who else I’d be,” she smiled. “I suppose you expected some eccentric bag lady who never washes her hair, wears a potato sack for a dress, and buries all of her money in the back yard. What can I do for you, Father.”
“Um, I’m Father Hogan.”
“Oh, yes, Dewey’s told me about you. I hope you’ll excuse my bad manners. You get a little cranky when the body begins to give out.”
“Can’t tell it by me,” he said.
She touched the back of her hair in that eternal gesture woman have who’ve just been complimented and believe every word of it.
“Well, come on in here, you old smoothy. I haven’t met anyone with such a silver tongue since the last time I talked to the Bishop. Do you know Bishop Pike?”
Father Mike tied the dog to a porch railing, then followed her into the kitchen. “Haven’t had the pleasure, but I have heard quite a bit about him. Seems like a very capable man.”
“Would you like some tea, or can I tempt you with something stronger?”
“Tea would be nice,” he said. “I’m afraid strong spirits don’t agree with me. They never have.”
She offered him a chair near a palladium-style window that overlooked the inlet from the river. Mutt, who’d worked free of the leash was barking at the ducks, who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
“Not even as a boy?” she said, settling a cup of tea on the glass table in front of him. The china looked as though it might be Wedgwood.
“No, I started the seminary as a ninth grader. Crosier, ever hear of it?”
“I think so. Up near Onamia, isn’t it?”
“Precisely.”
“Whatever made a charming man like you join the priesthood, Father? If you don’t mind my asking.”
He took a sip of tea. Earl Grey, he thought. “Everybody asks, sooner or later. I don’t mind at all. I think I was born wanting to be a priest,” he said. “Other little kids would play house or school, but I was always in the basement where I had a play altar set up, performing my rendition of the holy mass.”
“Never heard that one before,” she said.
“Yes, I’m afraid I’d bore the pants off my little brother and sister. I was bigger and I made them play the roles of altar boys.” He finished the peppery-tasting tea, set his cup in the saucer, where it clattered to rest. “I won’t take up any more of your time than necessary, Mrs. Culp. As you know, the church needs a new roof, and I’ve been helping Father Dewey with solicitations.” He passed her his most recent tally.
She scanned the figure, whistled softly. “Five thousand! This is more like it. If you keep this up, we’ll have that church looking like the Sistine Chapel. I should be able to match this. Just let me get my checkbook.”
Not waiting for a response, she hurried out of the room, and Father Mike sat there examining the elaborate kitchen that smelled of an interior decorator. Yellow and blue pastel color scheme that included the refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher. Marbel countertops, a parquet floor that would have cost more than the house he’d grown up in. Such extravagance. Why couldn’t people rein themselves in? Why just last year, he’d read about a group who took a champagne flight to Paris for a New Year’s Eve party. At $10,000 a throw. They should shame themselves when there were so many people without food. Even in America.
While she was gone, he remembered about the picture of the Gordy’s car, and he wandered out of the kitchen, hoping to find the room with the Steinway. He meandered down a hallway, found a bedroom, a bathroom the size of a high school dressing room, but no living room with a piano. It must have been the other door leading off the kitchen. As he was retracing his route, he practically ran into the woman.
“Were you looking for the bathroom? Believe me, I know how it is when you get old. I’m up at all hours of the night myself.” She waved the check at him, and as he was about to grasp it, she pulled it away. “On the other hand, you may have been snooping. You weren’t, were you Father?”
The crooked smile was that of Margaret Rutherford in the Wizard of Oz when her flying monkeys had captured Dorothy and her little dog Toto.
“Just thought I’d check out the piano room, Mrs. Culp. Dewey said you have the most wonderful Steinway. I used to play a bit before I got these.” He waved his flippers at her.
Her face lit up. She certainly did not look any eighty years old. Her forehead was as smooth as polished porcelain, not a frown line in sight. He’d heard plastic surgeons did that with strychnine injections, an especially virulent poison.
“You’re interested in music?” she said, clutching his arm and practically dragging him to the music room. “I attended Julliard, you know. It’s the big regret of my life that I never did much with it.”
“Oh really?” he said. “Would you play something for me?”
The room was so spacious Father Mike would wager you could set up basketball hoops on both sides of the room and have a regulation court.
She sat down on the piano stool and was about to play when Father Mike picked up the portrait Dewey had mentioned and tried to make out the color of the car. Without his reading glasses, everything was a blur.
“That’s my grandson,” she said.
“Yes, I haven’t seen him in a number or years, but I see the resemblance. Gordon and Dewey were altar boys for me in Anoka.”
“Oh, yes, Father Fischer told me. What’s your impression of the boy?”
“Ah, how do I put this? He’s really made a success out of his life, hasn’t he? I never expected he’d--”
She played a few notes from what Father Mike thought was Chopin. “You never expected he’d pass the boards? Took him three times, just like the Kennedy boy. Come on, spit it out, what do you really think of him?”
Father Mike leaned against the piano, picked up the portrait in its frame. “Interesting color. What color would you say that is, Mrs. Culp? If you don’t mind my asking. I’m in the market for a new car, myself. One of the benefits of retirement, I can afford one, and this is just the right color.”
“That wound be silver.”
“Really, looks blue to me.”
“You’ve been evading me, Father.”
“Not at all. I’ve been told he’s a successful criminal attorney. It takes grit and deter--”
“You’re more slippery than a politician. Gordy is about as stable as a uranium isotope. I don’t know what to do with the boy. Money, money, money. He goes through it like Ronald Reagan went through jelly beans. Now, he wants me to foot the bill for a Vegas vacation. Says he wants to impress a woman.”
“You could say no.”
“And risk him never showing up here again. He’s all I’ve got, Father Hogan.”
“Ah, excuse me, but would Gordy have time for a vacation? I’d thought he was defending this Blom person, the man who the police allege killed that 7-11 clerk up north.”
“Not any more. Says Blom had the intellect of a chicken, but I think the real reason is the boy has a low threshold for boredom. Probably gets it from me. The reason I wasn’t able to tolerate the concert tour. Instead, I’m heavily into plastic surgery. No time for much else. If only Ponce de Leon had been more determined.”
“Ah, would this woman the boy is interested in be a girl named Viktorija Gashi, the housekeeper at the rectory?”
“One and the same, the little gold digger.”
“Seems like a nice person to me.”
“Nicer than Gordy, you mean? Did you know I caught him smoking dope. Threatened to cut him out of my will if he didn’t get therapy. He glared at me as if I were some kind of wart-nosed harridan. Cut me to the quick, it did.”
“How often does Gordy make it to St. Gervais, Mrs. Culp?”
“Whenever he needs money, which has been a lot lately. He was just here for my birthday.”
She played a few more bars of Chopin, then slammed the cover down on the keys. “Clunky, very clunky. I’m afraid I’ve lost the touch.” She reached inside her brassiere where she’d stashed the $5,000 check and handed it to him, a little grin playing on her lips. He’d bet she could still twist most men around her little finger.
Once outdoors, he couldn’t resist sniffing at the bank draft as if it were a love letter from an especially attractive young woman and he were a doughboy far away from home in the trenches of France. The check retained the scent of the seductress’s body lotion.
#
While Father Mike was dueling with the indomitable Mrs. Culp, Dewey was at St. Gervais High, showing Trace Trutwin Gordy’s photo. The counselor, a young fellow with hair so blond he could have sung with the Backstreet Boys, had been gracious enough to let Dewey use his office and to disappear to the teacher’s lounge to catch up on the latest gossip.
Dewey fit a dollar bill into the Coke machine outside the office, heard the aluminum can clunk into the receptacle, and strolled back into the office, where he handed the drink to Trace. Because this was one of his fast days, bread and water only, Dewey would make do with a plastic cup of water.
“Thank you, Father,” Trace said. “I never got around to thanking you for your help during that police interrogation.” The boy spoke with a kind of whistling sound, because of the chipped tooth. He was wearing the same backward baseball cap and hockey jersey from Andy’s picture, and the Vandyke beard was still as wispy as it had been in the photo.
“Don’t mention it,” Dewey said. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? I understand you had an argument with a man driving a sports car in the Dairy Queen parking lot.”
Trace swallowed, glanced over at the telephone on the counselor’s desk where one of the lines was blinking yellow. “Erin must’ve told you, huh?”
“Can’t say; it was told to me in confidence.”
“Had to be her. She’s the one told me this clown was sniffing around Andy, that she was sitting in his car and everything, and when I braced Andy about it, she said she’d told fancypants to kiss off, that she had a boyfriend and that we were thinking of getting married and everything. Which was news to me, boy. Ever since we done it, she’d been acting like I’d given her a ring. Anyway, the guy wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept showing up at her volleyball games, ogling her. Something I don’t even do. Watching that game is like watching paint dry, if you ask me. Anyway, I hung out around the Dairy Queen, and she pointed him out when he showed up in this mint-looking Porsche. I would’ve sucked Michael Jackson’s dick . . . Sorry, Father. It was a nice car. I would have given anything for--”
“Was he the same man you saw in the sheriff’s office, Mr. Culp, the lawyer?”
“Thought that dude seemed familiar. I guess it must have been the expensive suit that threw me off, and the dude in the Porsche wasn’t wearing shades. Still, though, I thought it might be him. But beggars can’t be choosers. I ain’t going to turn down a free lawyer, just because me and him checked each other into the boards a couple of times.”
Dewey took a sip of water. If he’d had a fistfight with Gordy, he’d remember, probably because of the broken nose and cauliflower ear he’d be nursing. Dewey showed Trace the photo. “That’s him without the shades. Is he the one you fought with?”
Trace studied the picture as if it were an especially difficult trig problem. “Could be him. I was kind of busy ducking, you know. The guy was pretty good with his dukes. Must have been some kind of jock at one time.”
“Still is.”
“Really, what does he play?”
“A little arena football.”
“That’s the indoor game, right?”
“Yeah, the one Kurt Warner, the quarterback for the Rams, played. Ah, what color was the car, do you remember?”
“Silver, like a silver bullet.”
“Why didn’t you tell Sheriff Weaver about the car, Trace?”
“The lawyer guy told me not to, promised me a twenty to make it worth my while. Like I said, I kind of thought it was the same dude, but if he was willing to give me free legal advice plus the twenty, I wasn’t about to queer his action.”
“Tell me about the fight, Trace.”
Trace drained his can, crushed it, and flipped it at the wastebasket, where it bounced out and clattered to the floor. “I went over there and he rolls the window down. No, wait, it was automatic. I remember hearing that buzzing sound. Then he goes, ‘What’s up, Bud?’ and I go, ‘My girl says you’re bothering her,’ and he goes, ‘and who’s your girl?’ and I go ‘Andy Leyk, the tuff blonde,’ and he goes, ‘Isn’t she a little too much woman for you, Sonny?’ and that’s when I popped him through the window. He threw open the door so hard he knocked me down, and we dropped the gloves, windmilling at each other like they do in pro hockey. That was when the cop car turned the corner, and he beat it to hell out of there.”
“Take another peek at the picture, Trace. That’s Gordy about ten years ago. He hasn’t changed that much. Is he the one you fought with?”
The kid sighed. “It could be him, but I’m not really one hundred percent sure. Lots of blond dudes in Minnesota, what with all the Swedes, plus all the dye jobs these days.”
“So the guy was blond then?”
“Yeah, that much I remember.”
“Did you mark him up?”
“Nah, I doubt it. We both had our guards up. Wait, that first shot might’ve nicked him a bit. Seems like I got him in the mouth.”
“One more thing, Trace, and you can go. Did he ever buy anything at the Dairy Queen?”
“How should I know? I don’t work there.”
“Why don’t you ask around and let me know what you learn, huh?”
“Sure, if it’ll help find Andy’s killer.”
#
Dewey’s stomach hurt from not eating, but when he got back to the rectory, he had other bodily functions to worry about. Viktorija was in Father Czech’s office typing up the Sunday bulletin. She was wearing a white short-sleeved blouse with the color turned up like James Dean and culottes, and her feet were bare. She smiled up at him, not bothering to stop her
typing. The chattering of the computer keys was somehow sensual, rather like the jangle of a really good pinball machine when a guy really had it smoking. Then her smell got to him--that combination of musk and soap that frazzled his brain.
When she stopped to check her work, she noticed his erection. She gave him a little smile, as if horndogs with boners the size of Rhode Island were something a girl just had to put up with, like Monday Night Football. He could feel the color rush to his face, and he bolted from the room into the kitchen, where he switched on the portable radio to drown out his lecherous longings.
KSTG played mostly country, and Randy Travis was warbling “Diggin UP Bones” about an old girlfriend, which, of course, reminded him of Abby.
Dewey sat at the kitchen table with his heads in his hands, his mind swirling. I must have a thing for heathen women, he told himself. His first love had been an agnostic with a penchant for pantheism; his second a Moslem who discarded her religion like a snake shedded its skin.
He reached in his back pocket, took out his billfold, opened it to the picture section, where he still had Abby’s high school snapshot. He took it out of the plastic sleeve and stared at it, and his nostalgic mood transported him to Goldman’s Java, where he sat across from Abby in their favorite booth by the window. Her hair was different, pulled back in a ponytail with the front combed down in bangs. He’d loved her hair. It was so black it looked wet. And her eyes--she had oriental eyes that knew when he was bullshitting. Way, way back, there was some Ojibway blood, but not enough to qualify for casino profits.
It was the day he’d told her he was thinking of entering the seminary, and she was telling him what a crock Christianity was.
“My God doesn’t turn people into salt, or give poor old Job boils,” she said. “My God is a musician who makes Mozart look like a slacker. Think about the emotions, sadness for instance. Sadness itself is too static for God. So he aims for a high note and creates nostalgia, the feeling you get when you hear an old song. And sometimes he strives for a low note, and wallah--we’ve got grief. See, variations on a theme, just like a musician. We’ve got malaise; we’ve got depression. Actually, I think I prefer the Greek Gods. There were more of them, for one thing, and they had fun toying with humans. And they didn’t discriminate against women. They were fond of music, too. Apollo played the lyre, didn’t he?”
“You’re just givin’ me shit,” Dewey said. “I’ve seen you in church.”
“My old man makes me go. Cuts my allowance when I don’t. I can’t be Christian anyway. I’m pro-choice, pro-euthanasia.”
“I think I can find a few Catholics who feel the same way.”
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, gripped his fingers as hard as a woman in labor. “If you join the priesthood, who’ll be the father of our twins?”
Uncle Mike thought Abby was a dangerous young woman. But she was so funny! She knew “Who’s on First” by heart; she could do a dead-on impression of Abbott and Costello. Abby had been his anima, the female part of his personality. Making love to her had been like making love to himself.
Dewey’s revery was broken by singing coming from Father Czech’s office. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but it sounded a lot like Charlotte Church, the little British soprano. Like a Greek sailor, if he listened to this siren’s singing, he was headed for the rocks.
And then he did what he always did when he was attracted to a woman, he looked for the flaw, the one physical or personality trait that would douse the flame. What was it? Surely there was one; there always was.
Viktorija’s singing grew louder. He tried to think of something about Viktorija that bothered him. She was short. Short people were always trying to make up for it some way. But he was short; he liked it that she only came up to his chin. She was a foreigner; she was looking for a husband. But if that was the case, why would she choose him? Gordy would be a much better catch, so would the veterinarian.
This was all too unproductive. He picked up the kitchen extension and dialed Roger Udermann, the priest from Rich Prairie, who’d once gone to medical school, before deciding on the priesthood.
“Rog, Dewey Fischer. Sorry about that golf date, but I’ve got a little problem here. You know about the murder case, right?”
“The Andy Leyk thing?”
“That’s the one. One of the suspects is a retarded boy. The local doctor thinks he’s autistic. I’m wondering if you know any specialists.”
“Let me make a few phone calls. I’ll get back to you.”
“Appreciate it, Rog. We’ll get out on the course soon, I promise.”
“No sweat. I’m not much of a golfer anyway. Haven’t even broken a hundred yet.”
“You sound a little down, Rog. Anything wrong?”
“My pastor’s a bit of a taskmaster is all. Won’t let me handle anything without double and triple checking. How’s your guy?”
“You haven’t heard? He’s on extended vacation in Yugoslavia. I’m in charge here until the Bishop can find a replacement.”
“You lucky dog.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Well, good luck, then. I’ll get back to you about that specialist as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, Rog. Bye.”
Should’ve asked Rog if he was having any trouble with the ladies. Not the kind of thing to bridge over the phone, though, he supposed.
What was that song she was singing? “The Shadow of Your Smile,” that was it.
When he looked up, she was standing in the doorway. “Father Dewey, I was wondering if you could assist me with the computer.”
His temper flared. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
She hung her head like a little girl who’d just been yelled at by her adoring father. Tears began to bead on her eyelashes, the downturned smile became a grimace, and she disappeared into the office.
He followed her into the room, where she sat at the computer trying to reboot the machine, her fingers shaking. “I’m sorry, Viktorija. Guess I’m just in a bad mood.” He leaned over to check the machine. The old Apple IIe was frozen. He reached behind it, turned it off, and turned it back on. The screen slowly turned from green to grey. “There that ought to do it. Hope you didn’t lose all of your work.”
She looked up at him with such a whimsome, little girl expression he couldn’t stop himself. He placed his hands on her bare, tanned shoulders. And, rather than flinch, she touched his hand, and before he realized what he was doing, she was in his arms. He found himself sucking at her plum-like lips, then her velvet tongue. But he wasn’t completely gone; he was able to check himself. “No, we can’t do this. You were raped. I don’t want to be--”
“I was not raped.”
“You weren’t?”
“I said that so that you would feel sorry for me.”
His erection was gone; he let go of her and stepped back away from her. “And Nehat Bedini?”
“He was real. I wanted to come to America. Audrey wrote to me about the supermarkets where there was so much food that the managers had to throw some of it away at the end of the day. And she told me about the shopping center in Bloomington with over five hundred stores. I did not believe her when she said that most families had their own home with two cars in the garage, and I was outraged when she told me that many Minnesotans had another home on the lake. I wanted to come to American where there were no wars. No mines in the fields.”
“Please tell me you’re really from Kosova.”
“Yes, that is true. My friends were raped; my sister was raped. I was too ugly. The soldiers they did not want me.”
“You are not ugly!”
The secretarial chair edged forward and she hugged him around the legs, her face buried in the small of his stomach. He’d never felt anything quite like it. The small hairs on his stomach stood erect, and there was a delicious sensation in his stomach comparable only to the time he’d first had homemade ice cream and strawberries on his grandfather’s farm. She’d brushed aside his erection as if she delt with the minor nuisance every day.
“I wish for you to kiss me again,” she said. “I have loved you since that first day when you wanted to know about Islam. No other American has asked me about this. Not even Audrey.”
He found himself massaging her thighs and she was reaching inside her blouse, unhooking her brassiere. Buttons popped and his chest and hers were bared; more like pears than melons, but they would definitely do., and eventually her nipples, and then before he knew what hit him, her shorts were down and he’d thrust his finger up her vagina. It felt like wet silk, and she moaned like the temptress from Keats’ poem, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”.
“We must stop,” he said. “I’m a priest.”
“Do you really want me to?” she said, kissing his nipples.
“No. I guess I’m damned.”
“You are not damned,” she said. “You are just a man.”
He entered her, and they careened about the room on the secretarial chair, knocking over books, banging into walls, throwing a wheel. A bust of St. Augustine crashed to the floor, shattering into little pieces.
But the awkward position hurt his back. “Let us go in the bedroom,” she said. “It will be better there.”
As if she were his new wife on their honeymoon night, he carried her into the bedroom and placed her on the blue bedspread, next to which he knelt and told her how much he’d always wanted her, ever since she’d come to the door and he’d thought she was a student from St. Teresa’s. And he recited Keats’ poem, aloud.
“This poem it sounds as though the fairy woman may be a devil.”
“I prefer to think of her as the unattainable woman.”
“But I am not so unattainable.”
“Lucky me,” he said and bent to kiss her swelling lips.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in erotic ecstacy in Father Czech’s bedroom, during which time the phone rang and would not stop ringing until Dewey came up for air and answered it. “Hello,” he said, in a dazed voice, deprived of its usual timbre.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Father Czech said. “I’m just calling about the dog. I’m wondering if he’s been an inconvenience.”
Dewey sat up in bed, ran his fingers through his hair. “No trouble at all, Emil. Where are you?”
“I’m still here in St. Cloud, trying to scare up the money for my trip. How are things there?”
“Great,” Dewey squeaked. “Uncle Mike is here helping out, and we’ve got a good start on the church roof. Mrs. Culp has agreed to match any moneys we can acquire.”
“That’s good to hear,” Father Czech said, but it didn’t sound as if it was good to hear at all. He sounded rather disappointed. Dewey felt along the arch of Viktorija’s back. She’d gone to sleep and was lying face down in the pillow, a bit of drool escaping from one corner of her mouth. “I’ll be back to get Mutt when I return from Yugoslavia, which should be in a month or so.”
“Take your time. He and Father Mike have become inseparable.”
“Strange. He usually doesn’t take to people.”
So far Dewey had seen the dog with three people: Roman Platz, Viktorija, and Uncle Mike, and the dog had practically made love to all of them.
Dewey hung up the phone and was about to get up and get dressed when he noticed someone standing in the doorway. Pete Wielinski, the wife-beating groundskeeper. Quickly, Dewey got into his clothes, clutched the man’s arm and led him into the kitchen, where he sat the man in a chair.
“What can I say, Pete,” he said. “You caught me red-handed.”
“I won’t say anything,” Pete said, lighting one of his non-filtered cigarettes with a kitchen match he struck on the bottom on his shoe. “It’s pretty much common knowledge that the old priest was poking Mrs. Hanover. I don’t see why it should be any different with a young fellow. I’ll be needing a little boost in my pay envelope, though.”
Blackmail. Dewey couldn’t countenance blackmail, but instead of telling the blackguard to kiss off, he said. “I’ll have to let you know about that, Pete. I can’t think too straight right now.”
“Yeah, a woman’ll do that to you. This ain’t your first time is it?”
“No, I didn’t make up my mind about the priesthood until I was . . .” Why in the world was he having this conversation with this, this . . . “Look, Pete, you’ll have to excuse me. The pay increase shouldn’t be any problem if you’re reasonable about it. I was about to raise your salary anyway.”
Pete stood. “The reason I came in here was ‘cause of the lawn mower. It needs a new blade.”
Dewey felt in his back pocket, found his wallet, fished for a ten. “Is that enough?” he said.
“Plenty,” Pete said.
When the groundskeeper was gone, Dewey crept back into the bedroom, where Viktorija was still sleeping, and sunk down on the bed. He had a migraine to end all migraines. To think, that morning he’d decided to fast in an obviously futile attempt to get Viktorija out of his mind.
Viktorija’s eyes blinked open. “What is the matter, honey?” she said.
“Nothing much,” he said. “Just that the groundskeeper was in here hitting me up for money.”
“He saw us in bed together?”
He nodded.
“You will have to fire him then.”
“But he’ll tell everyone.”
“And no one will believe him. Is he not a drinker and a wife beater?”
“I guess so. Look, Viktorija. I’m so sorry about this. We’ll have to . . .”
She shrunk back, as though he’d just kicked her in the teeth. “You are ashamed? Is that it?”
“Well, can you blame me? I’m a priest for God’s sake.”
“I will leave in the morning. Dr. Booker he has offered me a full-time position.”
“No, I don’t want you to leave.”
“I was going to tell you before we . . .before we . . .”
“Made love. I think I love you, Viktorija. It’s just that it’ll take me awhile to get used to . . .”
She swung her feet onto the floor, her breasts jouncing like Christmas oranges in a net bag. Her narrow hips brushed up against him as she did and once more old Johnny rose to attention, despite the beating he’d just taken.
“We will talk, but I cannot stay in this house any longer.”
“I’ll miss you like crazy,” he said, touching her lips.
She grasped his hand, lowered it to her breasts. “You will remember what you are missing when you make your choice, Father Fischer.”
Later that evening, Dewey and Uncle Mike were sitting in the easy chairs before the fire, Father Mike stroking his new friend Mutt’s fur and Dewey mouthing the words to a song he heard in his head, “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” Paul Robeson’s deep bass tore at him like an artic wolf tearing at the haunches of a caribou.
“You look as though you’ve just murdered someone,” Uncle Mike said.
“Murdered my vocation, most likely. Viktorija and I had sex in Father Czech’s bedroom.”
Uncle Mike looked as though he’d just surrendered the jackpot at Friday night Bingo for the fourth week in a row. His eyes seemed to sink deeper into his skull and his shoulders seemed even rounder, as though he’d just been lashed repeatedly by a Roman centurion. But then he brightened; a dreamy smile raised the corners of his lips, and he said: “I see. Those things happen. We’re all human. Would you like to hear about my first slip-up?”
“And that’s not all. Pete Wielinski caught us.”
“Oh, my. That is a predicament.”
“He wants a raise.”
“I would say the best defense is a good offense. Tell him he’ll lose his job. He’s not in that much demand around here from what I understand.”
“But I’m not sure I really care. I think I love Viktorija. My married friends tell me the right one doesn’t come around all that often.”
Uncle Mike searched his pockets for his pipe. “I was about to regale you with my first sexual experience, before I was so rudely interrupted. Want to hear it or not?”
“I’ve always wanted to hear it.”
He retrieved his pipe from a breast pocket, packed the tobacco down with a thumb and lit it, as if he were a kind uncle about to dazzle his nephew with sea adventures. “When a woman makes up her mind she’s going to get a man, he might as well batten down the hatches because he’s in for a hell of a blow. Remember Mrs. Logan?”
“No way.”
“No way, what? No way you remember, or no way I’d do it with her?”
“No way would you have sex with her. That woman had bleached blond hair, wore enough mascara to paint a house. Then there was the push’em’up bra, and the legs that went all the way up to her neck.”
Uncle Mike puffed contentedly as if he were telling Dewey about a deserted island and the treasure he’d discovered there. “Well, you know the stories about Christ and Mary Magdalene, right? She was a prostitute and he forgave her and she became one of his apostles, despite the church’s assurance that all of the apostles were men. Anyway, when Mrs. Logan volunteered for the bazaar committee, I couldn’t turn her down. Christ couldn’t refuse Magdalene, I couldn’t refuse Mrs. Logan. For a year I fought off her advances. I made sure we were never alone. Then one day it snowed and I was very busy with an upcoming funeral or a wedding or something, and I didn’t notice everyone else was gone except Mrs. Logan. By that time it was too late to drive her off. We’d had at least two feet of snow and her car was buried in the driveway. I’ll spare you the graphic details.”
Dewey tried to see past the rheumy grey eyes. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”
“Get me a Bible if you don’t believe me.”
“Was she as--”
“She made Raquel Welch look like a boy.”
“Well, I must say I do feel better about this. I hope Mrs. Logan doesn’t find out about it, though. She could sue for slander. How’d you make out at Mrs. Culp’s?”
Uncle Mike gave him a peevish look; then realized what Dewey’d said was just a poor choice of words. He reached in the pocket of his Pendleton shirt, passed the check to Dewey. “She caught me hunting for the piano room, accused me of snooping, but I convinced her I only wanted to see the Steinway you’d told me about. Told her I played.”
“You really are a liar.”
“It was only a little white one. Anyway, the sports car was silver. That help you any?”
“Maybe. Trace Trutwin says the car he saw was a silver Porsche. So, we’ve got the paint chips in the ditch, Trace’s description, and the photo above Mrs. Culp’s piano. But Gordy drives a black MG. How would a detective go about finding out whether a suspect traded in his car?”
“Department of Motor Vehicles. Those records are public information in Minnesota.”
“You’re a genius.”
“As Elvis used to say, thank you, thank you very much.”
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Web Site:
Mystery Writer
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thought provoking article well said
From what I read here, I can sense that you have read a great deal and absorb much more of your history and religion that I have. Your metaphors and similes are wonders to behold with things that might seem to be off chance, but are actually spot on.
I'm still trying to figure out why priests are involved in a murder investigation, but that's okay. I'm not much into mysteries, but this one looks like something worth reading.
Ron
Love ya!
Jane